


The Continuing Fantastic Tales of the Great Bard Jaskier, Her Valiant Witcher, and a Horse

by Theladyknight23



Series: Shining Stanzas [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F, Female Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Female Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Genderbend, Horse Girl Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Roach, and Jaskier who is most decidedly not a horse girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26723566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theladyknight23/pseuds/Theladyknight23
Summary: A story of baths, early mornings, domestic bliss and monsters.Or how Jaskier and Roach saved Geralt and learned to tolerate each other.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Shining Stanzas [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1887478
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to [Glorious Ballads](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25944988/chapters/63065932)  
> All you need to know is that after several years of travelling Jaskier and Geralt have finally told each other how they feel, this is a fluffy short story set shortly after that declaration.

The fact that so little changed since the screamed declarations of love was perhaps the first indication that Jaskier and Geralt had been in a relationship in all but name for quite some time.

They still went about their travelling in much the same way, still singing and slaying for their supper. They still shared a bed, but after years of awkwardly circling around emotions and desire, Jaskier could now finally tell Geralt in so many words exactly what she wanted the Witcher to do to her. They could collapse into a lumpy bed after a long day and have some fun. While Jaskier was all for taking advantage of doors that locked, there was also something to be said for the quiet comfort of nestling closer after a long day on the road, wrapping herself up in Geralt’s arms. She loved the soaring wild nights, high with adrenaline and giddy, hands desperately seeking out the other in a dark room. But Jaskier also loved the soft security of quiet nights, whispering sweet nothings and falling asleep pressed to Geralt’s side.

Jaskier loathed early mornings, but she adored waking up to Geralt’s face, no matter Geralt’s continuing commitment to rising at beastly hours. Burying her face in a pillow, Jaskier would groan loudly. Sometimes that was enough to convince Geralt to shrug off her amour and come back to bed, to let the road wait just a little longer. When they camped Geralt rose with the sun, and started a fire, beginning to make breakfast. Only then would she ease the sleepily blinking Jaskier out of her bedroll, propping her before the fire, and stuffing a mug of coffee in her hands, patiently waiting for Jaskier to return to her bright, exuberant self. It was only when Jaskier had progressed from bleary grunts to full on extravagant declarations of terrible Witchers that hated the concept of sleep, or speculations on returning to Oxenfurt where she could actually have a proper lie in, that Geralt broached the subject of setting off for the day. Jaskier was fully aware of how ridiculous it was, but this kindness, this patience, was so impossibly sweet to her. She was fairly certain others would not find a dented cup of shitty coffee the heights of romance, but that did not matter. She loved it. She could write an ode to horrendously early mornings and the beautiful Witchers that made it bearable.

The softness of these morning moments was matched only by Geralt’s willingness to listen. She might grumble, and grunt, and point out all the falsehoods in Jaskier’s stories—but she listened. Jaskier had spent her childhood being constantly reminded, in no uncertain terms, just how a proper lady should conduct herself. Viscountesses were not to babble, to speak any thought that came into their mouths. They were not to jump between ideas, even if the connection was perfectly logical to them, as that was dreadfully rude to the assembled company. They were to be seen, and not to be heard unless they were voicing support for their husband’s ideas. Elmira liked to tightly pinch Jaskier’s upper arm as a reminder, while Mother preferred sharp glares and sending her off to bed without supper. Jaskier had fled that world, fled her mother, found Oxenfurt and talked herself silly. As a bard she found an expression for the words, the music, bubbling up inside of her. She loved the applause, the willing audience caught on her every word, the ballads sung out for a crowd of strangers. But she also delighted in the intimacy of just talking and talking to someone who was willing to listen, not because she was a bloody fantastic bard, but because she was someone they liked to listen to. Someone to listen even when the words weren’t poetic and pretty. Geralt might grumble, and half heartedly tell her to shut up, but Jaskier knew the truth. If she had truly wanted Jaskier to be quiet, she could have taken steps long ago.

Requesting a bath for Geralt had long become part of her routine. But now Jaskier requested two when possible, despite the added expense. Jaskier helped Geralt scrub away the worst of whatever foul creature she had encountered. Then Jaskier joined Geralt in the second bath, and Geralt carefully washed and combed out Jaskier’s hair. They would linger there and talk. Jaskier did most of the speaking, pouring out her thoughts, trying out new lyrics, with Geralt largely content to listen, hum, and provide information when pestered. But sometimes Geralt could be persuaded to share stories of her scars, her time on the Path before Jaskier, or her childhood in Kaer Morhen. They stayed until hunger or exhaustion forced them out, the water kept preternaturally warm all the while with the repeated application of igni.

Now that they had made their feelings for each other known, Jaskier was finally given leave to voice the proclamations of love that leapt through her thoughts whenever she was close to Geralt. She no longer had to bottle her emotions up until they erupted in song or in frantic rants delivered for Roach’s ears only. While Witchers may be less disposed to blushing, on account of their various mutations, Jaskier quickly discovered that her Witcher could be induced to sudden crimson cheeks with the application of the right selection of words. This was a softness Jaskier ruthlessly took advantage of, delighting in bestowing on Geralt the praises and flattery she had yearned to say for so long. She just managed to avoid doing so in front of various aldermen, though she couldn’t truly be blamed for a stray “dear heart” spilling from her lips in public every once in a while. Or slipping a perhaps too overt line about a certain Witcher’s thighs into her latest ballad. It was rather fun watching Geralt, tucked up in some dark corner of the tavern, suddenly blush and splutter into her ale. 

Of course now that Jaskier had screamed out her love for Witcher for everyone—including said Witcher—to hear, Geralt had discovered that her bard wasn’t simply plagued by weak knees, an overactive heart and a constant fever. That she had once chalked Jaskier’s rather overt lovesick flailing to illness, which Geralt haltingly admitted several days after leaving Cintra, was enough to leave Jaskier struggling to breathe through her laughter, tears of mirth running down her cheeks. They truly were both idiots. Now that Geralt could recognize the signs in Jaskier, she too worked to provoke such responses, though never quite as doggedly as Jaskier, on account of her dignity or some other such nonsense. Geralt would slip away in a village to return with a blue ribbon for Jaskier’s hair, or thoughtfully compliment a line of Jaskier’s ballad (before smartly informing Jaskier that Wraiths hadn’t actually tried to possess her mid-fight). Her mouth tugged up into a smile when Jaskier was reduced to random strings of babbled words.

“For a bard, you'd think you would be better with your words.”

“ugh just get over here,” Jaskier groaned, making desperate grabby hands.

But really, Geralt did not need to try. A glimpse of her golden eyes, her strong shoulders, or her rather glorious teeth was enough to set Jaskier’s heart racing.

It had been several weeks since they had become whatever they were—"soulmates” she would declare when asked, launching into an ode to Geralt’s lovely shoulders, while Geralt was content with the more simple and esoteric statement, “the bard is mine.”

Jaskier was delighted with many of the developments post declaration, the way they slipped even more seamlessly into each other’s lives. There was, however, something that had failed to change, and it was truly beginning to grow on Jaskier’s nerves. 

Roach.

The beastly horse still hated Jaskier, and the feeling was entirely mutual.

Thus far they had managed to avoid most awkward situations, with Geralt electing to lead Roach on foot, Jaskier safely positioned on Geralt’s other side. Geralt strapped their belongings on the horse each morning, and Jaskier swore she could feel Roach’s unrestrained anger in her glares at this development.

“My bag is definitely lighter than Geralt, stop looking at me like that!” cried Jaskier once, while Geralt was inside negotiating a contract.

Roach only pinned back her ears and continued to glare.

“Your horse despises me,” announced Jaskier one night, once they were safely ensconced in a room, out of Roach’s hearing.

“What? No she doesn’t.”

“Geralt. Do not lie to me. Not about this.”

Geralt grunted. “I think you are being a little overdramatic.”

“When have I ever been overdramatic about anything ever?” asked Jaskier, waving her arms about.

Geralt fixed her with a long-suffering look.

Geralt’s tone changed several days later, after witnessing Roach deliberately stomping down on Jaskier’s foot.

“Hmm. I think Roach might actually hate you.”

Jaskier resisted the urge to scream.

Geralt swung Jaskier up on to Roach’s back, carefully arranging Jaskier’s skirts, before mounting up behind Jaskier for the short ride to the nearest village. Geralt’s presence was the only thing that kept Roach from snapping at Jaskier, leading to a truly tense ride. Thankfully Jaskier’s foot did not appear to be broken, only severely bruised. Geralt carried her up the stairs to their room in her arms, an act Jaskier usually would have taken immense delight in, if she was not already distracted by thoughts of vindictive horses who seemed truly out to get her.

“I think Roach is jealous,” said Jaskier, as Geralt gently smeared healing salve across her foot.

“Of what?” asked Geralt absent-mindedly, intent on her task.

“Me, obviously,” said Jaskier, puffing up, setting her hands on her hips.

Geralt looked up from Jaskier’s foot and shrugged.

“Why would she be jealous of you?”

“Well, dear Witcher, because of something like this,” said Jaskier, reaching forward to pull the Witcher into a rather glorious kiss.

“I-I seriously doubt that Roach is jealous,” managed Geralt when Jaskier broke away, leaning forward to follow Jaskier, the task of wrapping up Jaskier’s foot temporally abandoned.

The next day Jaskier was walking back to their camp from the river, hands full of wet clothes—two dresses she really should have had washed in the inn the day before if Geralt hadn’t managed to be quite so distracting—when she caught the sounds of Geralt speaking. Jaskier stopped, intrigued. She crept forward, peering through the trees.

Geralt was standing before Roach, hands on either side of the bay mare’s face, peering into Roach’s black eyes.

“—need to be kinder to the bard. Jaskier will always be travelling with us, you need to get used to it.”

Roach huffed and stomped a foot restlessly.

“I love her.”

Jaskier's breath caught in her throat. She had heard those words before. Geralt had whispered them in her ear twice, had said them in every soft look and patient sigh and hand reaching out to pull Jaskier closer. But it was the earnestness of these words, the promise they held that shook Jaskier. This was Geralt reasoning with her beloved horse for Jaskier.

Throwing aside all propriety, Jaskier leapt forward. She needed to get her hands on Geralt immediately. Geralt looked up in surprise at the sound of Jaskier crashing through the trees, turning just in time to catch Jaskier as she threw herself at the Witcher.

The problem with the beastly horse could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided Mitski's "I Will" is the theme for these two as I continue to go feral over relationships of mutual care and protection


	2. Chapter 2

It had been seven hours since Geralt left.

Jaskier sat on their bed tucked away in a closet of a room in the upstairs of a shitty inn in the middle of nowhere, and tried not to think about the scars cutting across Geralt’s pale skin. Tearing traces of all the times claws, talons and teeth got too close. If they had dug just a little deeper, ripped further into flesh and precious organs, she could have been lost. Geralt was so gloriously good with her swords, her reflexes impossibly quick, but the world was wild and vicious and cruel. Filled with creatures and men, monsters both of them. At Oxenfurt, Jaskier had learned, amongst other things, about human anatomy from professors and fellow students. She learned how fantastic the human body was, and how desperately vulnerable. The body was a powerful machine, capable of great wonders, but it was all too easily punctured, broken or torn asunder. It was one of the terrible paradoxes of humanity, that all this wonder and possibility would be contained in a body so open and defenceless. A stray dagger, an arrow, a festering tooth, a plague, and that brilliant spark would be suddenly, forever, extinguished. But they said even the hides of dragons could be punctured. So perhaps the gods laughed at them all.

Jaskier’s mind was rambling, thoughts trailing desperate spirals. The anatomy of Witchers was seldom discussed at Oxenfurt outside of brief theoretical debates, but it was a common topic of hushed conversations in hallways and loud arguments at night. Several students liked to swear they could testify to the mutant prowess of Witchers from personal experience, declaring Witchers had impenetrable skin, endless stamina, and silver blood that curdled and boiled when it hit the earth. One young man liked to claim that he had seen with his own eyes just how the various mutagenetic processes enhanced _every_ part of the Witcher. These stories involved lots of particular hand gestures. Jaskier had suspected he was full of shit then and knew now that all of that was fucking ridiculous. She had made a study of Witchers over the years of travelling, a course of research that had only grown more intensive since the night in Cintra. She knew that Witcher’s bled red, that they grew tired like any other woman though they could carry on longer than most, and most importantly—she knew that they could be hurt. She had reverently traced her fingers over Geralt’s scars in bed at night alight with morbid curiosity, gently easing the stories out of the Witcher. Geralt, when she talked of them, spoke of her scars nonchalantly, a simple fact of life. One day, she shrugged, she would be too slow, her opponent stronger, and that would be the end. Jaskier shook her head and clung tighter, ferociously declaring that she would fight death itself if it dared take Geralt. Geralt had only sighed softly and pressed a lingering kiss to Jaskier’s forehead.

Jaskier clutched her lute and tried not to think.

Geralt had left over seven hours ago, setting off on foot into the woods. She had told Jaskier she would be back in three. That Jaskier did not need to come, or fret. All signs pointed to a simple ghoul. Something Geralt could easily handle, returning in time to catch Jaskier’s evening performance. Since her encounter with the horrific beast from hell, subsequent nightmares, and a couple of visits to various healers, Jaskier had now begun joining Geralt on some of her monster hunting expeditions. But only for creatures that promised to be particularly interesting, dying in a manner well suited for a spectator watching from a distance. She needed material, and despite Geralt’s halting empirical attempts, a poet she would never be.

Jaskier knew that Geralt found her presence at these fights distracting, her intensified senses straining to take in the threat before her and her bard. Jaskier—Jaskier’s mind couldn’t even comprehend how she would feel if she was the cause of a distraction at a pivotal moment. If her gasp left a blade swinging just a little too slow, if the sweat on her brow caused a foot to slip out of position. Jaskier had shaken most of her nightmares, but the image of Geralt, lying broken and bloody in that horrible clearing still lingered, like some kind of splinter. She couldn't lose those soft mornings, those wild nights, that shitty coffee, and her witcher, being there for her through it all. 

Jaskier wasn’t going to get Geralt killed. And Jaskier had no intentions of being gobbled up or torn to pieces by some creature slipping around Geralt’s blade. She couldn’t die because she was wonderful, adored, and brilliant. She couldn’t die because the thought of leaving Geralt to her lonely existence hurt almost as much as the thought of Geralt dying.

Needless to say complex calculations occurred each time they took on a new assignment, Jaskier weighting thoughts of danger, interest, her exhaustion, how much her feet hurt, the quality of the local drinking establishment, the set of Geralt’s jaw, and the tone of her hums in her decision.

A ghoul was familiar though. Practically boring.

Jaskier had waved Geralt off and set off to arrange accommodations and drink. It was a shithole, but at least she got the pleasure of mentally mocking the local lowlifes.

Then the sour innkeeper was gesturing for her to start, and Geralt still wasn’t there.

Jaskier kept an eye on the old wooden door throughout her entire set. It was shoved open several times, but never by Geralt. Each time Jaskier’s fingers would still, her voice catching for a beat, before quickly catching up the thread of the song once more. Nothing but dour old men, ugly farmers with thick noses, travel-weary merchants and tired housewives. As she continued Jaskier eschewed her happier numbers, selecting ballads of lost loves and tragic heroes. Still, Geralt did not come. She curtsied at the end to a crowed subdued and pensive after withstanding over an hour of her most sorrowful, beautiful songs. One bristly great hunk of a man had a large handkerchief pressed to his face, whipping away tears. His companions were pointily looking away, but they all looked a little misty-eyed. It was a success in the sense that Jaskier had managed to carry this crowd so successfully into cathartic despair with only the power of her song, but it was a far cry from the joyful rallying performance she had promised. The innkeeper glared at Jaskier, but Jaskier waved a jaunty hand and quickly darted away, racing up the stairs to the room to let her thoughts spiral in peace.

Jaskier tried not to worry. She usually didn’t. She knew that Geralt was fiercely strong and skilled. Jaskier believed in Geralt like no one else, because of her skill with her sword, because of her smiles, kind hands, grumbles and sardonic one liners. But Jaskier’s confidence had eroded with every passing minute, and now her fantastic imagination was fully running away from her, vividly conjuring more horrific situations by the minute. It had been seven hours and Jaskier had to do something. Geralt hadn’t even taken Roach with her.

Roach.

Setting aside her lute Jaskier leapt to her feet. In Geralt’s bag she found a belt and a sheathed sword so small it was practically a knife. She tightened the belt around her waist and grabbed the silver scissors she kept around to keep Geralt’s short hair in order, shoving them in belt. It would be nice to finally have an opportunity to stab something with them. Thus equipped and praying she wouldn’t accidentally stab herself, she set off. Slipping past the innkeeper when her back was turned, Jaskier stole into the shack of a stable. A gangly lad, all elbows and knees with a pitiful attempt at a moustache dusting his upper lip, was cleaning tack in the corner by the light of a lone lantern. Jaskier set her shoulders, smoothed out her skirts and grinned. She could handle this.

It took little more than a sly smile, a couple of pretty words about how well he kept the stable, and the youth was bending over backwards to help her. Frantically hoping that the horrible horse would somehow understand the desperate look in Jaskier’s eyes, Jaskier directed the boy to saddle Roach. For once Roach did not snap, staring fixedly at Jaskier while the boy—Owen, he informed her, awkward but all too happy to chatter away to such a pretty stranger—quickly slipped around the mare, tightening straps.

“Oh dear,” said Jaskier when Owen had finished and turned to her, beaming, desperate for approval. Gods he was so young. “I seemed to have forgotten my bag in my room. Do you think I could trouble you further to fetch it for me?”

Owen practically fell over in his eagerness to comply, nodding quickly. Jaskier almost felt bad about stealing his lantern. Almost.

She had a Witcher to save.

As soon as Owen left, she gathered her courage and stepped up to Roach. The last time she had gotten this close to Roach’s mouth the horse had almost bitten off her nose. But these were desperate times and this was her ally. This was someone who cared about Geralt just as much as Jaskier.

“I know you hate me, and to be brutally honest I despise you, but Geralt is missing. I need your help to find her, and I need you to help me bring her back. So truce?” Jaskier had been talking at Roach for years out of boredom, or to piss the mare off, but this was taking the whole speaking to a horse thing to a new level. She felt ridiculous, but she was desperate. Roach snorted, ears flicking. But she didn’t bite. She let Jaskier lead her out of the stable, holding the stolen lantern aloft.

Jaskier had a vague idea of where Geralt had gone, though that idea largely amounted to a wide gesture in the general direction of the woods bordering the village. In the light of the lantern and the waxing moon, she found a worn footpath to follow, and with no other promising course of action, she started down it.

“Let’s hope she’s close to the path,” said Jaskier. “Or we’re fucked.”

Roach snorted, her ears alert and pointed forward. Jaskier had to hope this was a sign that Roach was equally invested in this quest. Despite her years of travelling with Geralt and Roach, and the sweet little pony she had ridden back when she still played the part of the good little noble, Jaskier was realizing she knew fuck all about horses. Hopefully, this wouldn’t all lead to Roach suddenly attacking her in the middle of the dark forest, but she wouldn’t put it past the mare.

“You know Roach, Geralt still loves you,” said Jaskier. Gods this was a discomforting topic but she needed something to distract her. 

Roach made a sound that seemed friendly. Maybe.

“Just because Geralt and I are together doesn’t mean she loves you any less.” This was the kind of thing people said to small children when they brought home a new baby. But the script almost seemed to fit here. What were jealous, nasty horses but overgrown children? Jaskier could practically hear Geralt making a similar connection between overly dramatic bards and toddlers.

“I know you did your best, but Geralt was lonely.” 

It suddenly hit Jaskier that this ridiculous conversation attempting to address the roots of Roach’s jealousy could be drowning out Geralt’s desperate cries. She bit her lip hard and fell silent. For the next few minutes Roach and Jaskier walked in silence, nothing but the creak and chatter of the forest at night, the dull sounds of Roach’s hoofs on the packed dirt and underbrush.

They were well into the woods when Roach suddenly neighed loudly, and refused to move forward.

“What?! What is it?!” demanded Jaskier, wildly swinging her lantern around, squinting into the darkness. She pulled out the sword and brandished it with one shaking hand.

“Whoever it is, know that I am both armed and the beloved companion of a mighty Witcher!”

Something out in the dark said something in a faint voice. It almost sounded like her name.

Jaskier wildly barrelled into the woods after the sound, Roach following after her.

“Geralt! Geralt! Shit! You better be alive! Geralt!!”

“Jaskier—” said the voice, hoarse and pained.

A step forward and the swinging beam of Jaskier’s lantern caught Geralt, half propped up against a tree, one hand clutching at her leg, the other holding her sword. Jaskier tripped over her skirts in her eagerness, desperately skidding down beside Geralt, holding out her arms to wrap up her Witcher. Geralt hissed in pain as Jaskier pressed close, and Jaskier made to move away, but Geralt wrapped her arm around the bard, pulling her closer.

“Gods, I thought I lost you,” said Jaskier, tears sparking in her eyes, leaning into Geralt’s chest. “Don’t you dare ever do that to me again.”

“I was calling,” said Geralt softly, “but you wouldn’t shut up.”

Jaskier laughed, hands clutching at Geralt’s armour.

"You were right. You are the beloved companion of a witcher," whispered Geralt in Jaskier's ear. 

"My mighty witcher," added Jaskier, tightening her grip. She never wanted to leave Geralt again. 

They stayed that way for a moment, wrapped up in each other. They needed this reassurance, the steady beat of two hearts slipping into each other’s rhythm.

“What happened?” asked Jaskier finally. She could hear the hurt in every sharp breath.

“It wasn’t a ghoul,” grunted Geralt. “I dealt with it, but it got my leg.”

Jaskier slid away, and gently picked away at the torn leather, revealing the deep tear carving its way up Geralt’s leg, starting above her knee and ending just before her hip. It looked desperately painful.

“I was just working up to making my way back when you found me.”

Jaskier snorted. “You weren’t getting anywhere on this leg by yourself.” With a sigh she pulled out her scissors—she knew it was a good idea to bring them—and cut strips away from the bottom of her underskirt.

“You owe me a new dress,” she informed Geralt, setting to work wrapping up the cuts in the semblance of a bandage that would do until they could reach a healer.

“Jaskier,” said Geralt, setting a gentle hand on Jaskier’s cheek. Jaskier looked up from her work to stare into those glorious golden eyes. “Thank you.”

“Always,” grinned Jaskier, and swept in for a kiss.

When Jaskier was finished with Geralt’s leg, Roach decided it was time to butt in. With a loud whinny, Roach stepped forward and nestled her face into Geralt’s. Geralt smiled widely and set a hand on Roach's head.

“She’s the one that found you,” admitted Jaskier, grumbling.

Keeping a hand on Roach, Geralt turned to Jaskier. “You two worked together?” she asked, an incredulous tone to her voice.

Jaskier set her hands on her hips. Like she wasn’t capable of getting along with a single beastly horse in the service of an important quest?

“We made a truce,” Jaskier said, smartly.

Geralt laughed. 

It seemed that Roach had actually been trained to kneel down for a rider to mount, so Jaskier was spared figuring out how exactly she was going to get a wounded Geralt up on Roach’s back. Which was good, as she hadn’t exactly thought that far into this daring rescue plan.

Leading Roach over to a fallen log, Jaskier managed to mount up beside Geralt. Holding the Witcher who was slightly woozy with blood loss steady, they rode back to the inn.

For once, Roach made no protests to having Jaskier close.

……

Three days later they came across a farmer leading a string of horses for the market. They really did not have the coin, but truces could only last so long. Roach only truly liked Geralt, and Jaskier expected to be loved by everyone. Despite their adventure, it was clear they would never truly connect. At most they were colleagues, both dedicated in their own ways to the well-being of their grumbling Witcher. Jaskier liked to think they had come to an understanding in that dark woods. They tolerated each other and respected the role the other played, for Geralt's sake. 

From the string of horses, Jaskier selected a white-grey gelding with a relaxed set to his mouth and a smart gleam in his dark eyes. The gelding happily approached Jaskier, taking the apple from her hand. Geralt sighed over the horse, saying it looked far too lazy for their life on the Path. Jaskier only grinned and shook her head. She announced that such a beautiful horse would need a soaring, illustrious name, and dubbed him Pegasus. Geralt grumbled and handed over the coin from their collective stash.

They set off again, Geralt on Roach, Jaskier on Pegasus.

“See Geralt! This is the life! The road, a song,” she plucked away a quick melody on her lute, “you on that beastly horse and me on my brilliant Pegasus.”

Geralt hummed, Roach snorted and Jaskier grinned and grinned.

This truly was the life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very cool that I, who knows nothing about horses, thought it was a good idea to write a fic about horses. Please excuse any mistakes as they are entirely my own. 
> 
> Thanks for reading this little short story, entirely created to answer the questions: 'what happens next' and 'will Jaskier get to ride the horse?' that somehow spiralled into this.
> 
> This will probably be the last of these two that I write for a while (time to go back to tormenting my own characters) so thought now was a good time to reiterate again how much I appreciate anyone taking a chance on my fic playing with these characters and offering up a chaotic bi and a grumbling lesbian.


End file.
